


The birthday special

by wearemany



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-31
Updated: 2008-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>We only hit and run.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The birthday special

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Happy ending.
> 
> Written for trixiesfic in the popoffacork exchange.

*

Accidents, Spencer's always said, are what happen when you stop paying attention.

For the third time that morning, he repeats his full name, his insurance policy number, his current address.

"Date of birth," the admit nurse prompts, and in a swooping swirl marks down the date, bold slashes between each set of numbers. "Oh," she says brightly. "You're 30." She smiles, eyes warm. "Happy birthday."

"Not particularly," he says.

Seven hours, three sets of x-rays and five interns later, they say he can go home as long as he takes it easy and has someone wake him up every two hours. "Who do you want us to call?" they ask. He names a cab company.

*

The upside of driving your own car through your own garage door and into your own living room is there's no one to press charges, and once you pass a field sobriety test and three blood screenings the cops are inclined to accept your bullshit explanation for why you hit the gas instead of the brake.

The downside is -- well, everything else.

He sets his alarm to go off at regular intervals and sleeps until it's almost dawn. He takes a shower, swallows a painkiller with his pot of coffee and looks up the number for his cell provider's kiosk at the nearest mall. The kid who works there is eventually convinced Spencer is serious about giving him an extra $300 in cash if he'll hand deliver a replacement phone.

The kid rings the bell, as if he couldn't simply walk right in. "Dude, your house is totally fucked up," he tells Spencer, all awe and acne. Spencer takes the bag, hands him the money and shuts the door in his face.

By the time he gets the phone charged and set up, he has 27 voicemails and even more text messages. He deletes them all. He calls the contractor who built the deck three years ago and explains he needs some work done, possibly structural and definitely soon.

"Is the interior exposed to the elements?" Jeff asks.

Spencer stands in his kitchen and watches a bird land on his mailbox, nothing but crumbling drywall blocking his view. "I can go buy a tarp," he says, and Jeff promises to swing by before dark.

Ryan gets there first. He yells Spencer's name from the square of concrete where the beer fridge used to be, and Spencer is reassured that Ryan sounds at least as worried as he does pissed off.

So he opens with, "I'm fine, Ryan," and Ryan snaps, "You better not be fine, you asshole. What happened to dinner? I called 10 times."

"My phone died." It was on the dashboard. He scuffs his shoe against a glinting shard of glass.

"What --" Ryan spins slowly, dramatically, in a circle. "What the fuck -- did you just drive _into_ your house?"

"No, God," Spencer says, and then Jeff's big white truck pulls into the driveway.

Jeff whistles low, shaking his head, and does a careful walk-through. Spencer and Ryan follow him.

"I'm not sure about this baby," he says, slapping a support wall between the laundry and the living room. There's a long jagged crack in the plaster, like a scar down a villain's face. "I can't guarantee this is gonna stay up, and if that goes, you could see part of the roof fall in. I'd feel a lot better if you stayed somewhere else, at least until I can get an inspector in here."

They skip the tarp, and Jeff hammers up a few pieces of plywood to at least give the illusion the house is secure.

He shakes his head, a hint of laughter in his voice as he speaks around the nails in his mouth. "Your wife seen this mess yet?"

Beside him, Ryan's shoulders stiffen. "She's out of town," Spencer says.

"How long? Not making any promises, but maybe we can fix it up in time. She doesn't ever need to know how bad it was."

Haley and Jeff had liked each other enough that when the deck was done they had him and his wife over for a barbecue, even though they had kids older than Spencer and almost nothing in common.

Ryan touches his back and says, "Just go pack a bag."

*

Spencer slips and falls in Ryan's spare shower, slamming his shoulder and then his cheekbone against the tiled corner of a shelf. He's so stunned by the sharp pain and slick ceramic that he sits for a while in the tub, water beating down on the top of his head.

When he gets out he checks and makes sure he's not bleeding, but as he and Keltie make breakfast she stops, turning his chin towards her. She leans over, her big belly brushing his arm, and pokes at the side of his face.

"You have a black eye," she says, "or you're going to."

"Airbag," he shrugs.

"Don't bullshit me, Spencer. Dancers spend their whole life black and blue, and I know exactly how old a bruise is."

He spoons eggs onto a plate. "It's nothing," he says, "I just knocked it in the shower."

"You _knocked_ it? What does that even mean?"

"I fell," he admits, and she sighs, stroking her hand down the center of his back.

"I think you got a case of the clumsy for your birthday," she says.

She's letting him off the hook, so he forces a little laugh. "I'll stay away from the china cabinet, I promise."

*

He absolutely knows how to use a grill. He has been master of the grill for many, many years now. He is the designated cook for every barbecue thrown at his house, at Ryan and Keltie's, at his parents'. So there is no fucking reason in the world that he should twice in five minutes burn himself, one angry long red imprint across the back of each hand. No reason at all.

Ryan hands him a stick of butter, and Spencer folds down to hang his feet in the pool. "I think this will help," Ryan says, so Spencer slathers it on.

It doesn't help at all. Ryan tries to put an arm around Spencer's shoulder, the one he banged in the shower, and he winces. When Ryan pulls away his bony elbow jabs Spencer ribs right where they're still bruised from the seat belt.

"Fuck, Ryan," he bitches. Ryan doesn't scoot away, but he does swivel sideways and stare at Spencer for a long time.

"You're kind of a mess," he says.

"Fuck you, what did you expect." Spencer snaps his mouth closed as soon as it's out. He doesn't want to --

Ryan starts to speak.

"I don't want to talk about it," Spencer says again.

They just sit there for a bit. Ryan fidgets, fussing with his cuffs. "Brendon's called me five times, today and yesterday."

He's called Spencer, too. Just once, though, or maybe once plus a message Spencer deleted during his spree.

"He's working on this soundtrack, he said. Could use some help."

Brendon is always working on someone's soundtrack, someone's album, someone's song. He doesn't need anybody's help to make other people's lyrics or movies or ideas sound their best but he's always happy to get it anyway. It's one of Spencer's favorite things about Brendon, his continued, obstinate insistence that he's not a functional one-man band. It almost makes up for his refusal to stop being so modest and step into the spotlight.

"Hmm," Ryan says, and smiles. He probably knows what Spencer's thinking. He usually does. "You should go stay with him for a while. Until your house is fixed."

It's not the worst idea Spencer's ever heard. Still --

"You need --" Ryan pauses, licks his lips.

"Jesus," Spencer says strongly, and they both laugh. "I must be fucked up if you're telling me what I need." He kicks his ankle under the chlorinated water and watches ripples float to the surface. "I don't -- I don't have a car," he says, and Ryan says, "So fly."

*

When he comes down the escalators into baggage claim at LAX, Brendon is leaning against a pillar, sunglasses on and his nose buried in a copy of People. He's laughing to himself, and not quietly.

"I can't believe I almost forgot how ridiculous you are," Spencer says, and Brendon's head snaps up.

"Hey!" he says, "hi, look," and waves a hand-written sign he'd had pinned under one arm. It says JAMES DEAN WELCOME TO LOS ANGELES PLS DRIVE CAREFULLY.

"Oh, fuck off, I wasn't -- I just --"

Brendon pulls him into a tight hug, nose in Spencer's neck. "Were you at least drunk?" he says, right in Spencer's ear. Spencer sighs and Brendon squeezes closer. The ridge of his sunglasses bump Spencer's skull and his mouth moves against Spencer's skin. "Happy birthday, by the way."

Spencer shrugs out of Brendon's clutch. "I don't know what I've done to to give people the impression I'm celebrating." He crosses his arms.

But Brendon just smirks, a giggle bubbling out. He says, "Not yet, anyway."

Spencer walks to the doors. They slide open with a smooth click.

"Uh, baggage?" he hears from behind him.

"Nope," he says.

Brendon jogs a few steps to catch up. The air outside feels hot and thick, though it's only a shade less dry than home. "You brought --" Brendon waves his hands up and down as they wait for the light to change.

"Yup," Spencer says, and feels his mouth stretch around his teeth.

"Huh." Brendon slides a fast hand up the back of Spencer's neck, pinching the skin there and then letting go. "Glad to see you still remember how to smile," he says over his shoulder as he makes a run for it.

*

"I suppose we'll have to go shopping, then," Brendon says in the car, arching an eyebrow.

Spencer doesn't disagree, and is willing to concede three hours and several thousand dollars later that old-fashioned retail therapy has marginally improved his mood.

"Like you could resist the Urie sunshine," Brendon argues as they make their way back to his condo. He drives one-handed, slurping a milkshake, elbow out the window, weaving around the other expensive cars on narrow Hollywood side streets. And people are worried about Spencer behind the wheel.

"So what's the plan," he says, fiddling with the balance for Brendon's stereo.

Brendon squints at the controls like he might argue with Spencer's superior skills but then simply shrugs. "Whatever you want, man."

Spencer would have thought by now it's obvious he doesn't know what he wants. He can feel Brendon staring at him.

"Why don't we see what's going on," Brendon offers finally, and Spencer nods, turning to the window and watching one manicured lawn after another go by in a green blur. He closes his eyes.

There's the hum of the speakerphone and beeping numbers and then a low purring ring. A sultry voice announces the name of some company and Brendon asks for someone named Callie. Three seconds of Rod Stewart later an assistant answers and Brendon gives his name. Back to you, Rod.

Spencer opens his eyes. "What happened to --" He waves his hand.

"Julie got promoted." Brendon sounds like he's talking about a kid and he deserves some of the credit. He keeps a publicist on retainer in lieu of a social secretary because he likes to be where other people are but hates waiting around to be invited. It's a little too much like high school for Spencer's taste but it keeps Brendon busy. It seems to keep him happy.

Callie sounds like she's from Texas but trying not to be, and she tells Brendon he's got three good choices. Laurel someone is having a record release party. She was on that teen show Haley watched sometimes in the summer. BMW is debuting a new sports car. "Definitely no cars," Brendon says, and Callie just rolls with it, as if that is a reasonable request. The Spider-Man remake is making its LA premiere.

Brendon looks to Spencer, and Spencer nods, says "that one" low enough he doesn't expect the microphone to pick it up.

"How many?" Callie chirps, and Brendon says, "Just me and Spencer. It's his birthday."

"It was last week," Spencer protests, but she asks how old and says, "Oooh, the big, three-oh, congratulations, enjoy the movie!"

Spencer hits the red phone on the touch screen, and Brendon's music fades back on.

Brendon's building looks the same outside but in the garage he pulls into a space right next to the elevator. "Weren't you --" Spencer doesn't actually mean to keep making stupid attempts at conversation, he just could have sworn when they were out earlier that year they'd had to wheel their suitcases a lot farther.

"Yeah, there's a list, someone moved out, I don't know. Having been 30 myself for a while now, I fully expect to be using a walker soon, so it seemed prudent to go along with the change."

Spencer swallows his laugh too late. He thwaps his shopping bags against Brendon's shoulder extra hard to make up for it.

*

At the theater they have assigned seats about halfway back, behind a guy and girl who play a married couple on a sitcom and in front of a couple actors Brendon somehow knows. He kneels on his seat and reaches over three people to give them half-hugs, nodding and promising to meet up somewhere later. Spencer nods when he's introduced and tries to remember to smile.

The movie's not as good as the original, despite better special effects and some funny cameos. "Franco is looking ooooold," Brendon says, and not very quietly, as they push through the crowd. Spencer doesn't think he was there but he shushes Brendon anyway, if only for the satisfaction of Brendon's mock outrage at being censored.

Spencer shrugs his assent to the idea of getting a drink and half an hour later they're up on a rooftop bar downtown as the last streaks of daylight fade, skyscrapers rising all around them just like Metropolis. The chick who played Mary Jane is making out with an average looking surfer dude in a corner and Brendon is having a half-whispered conversation with someone Spencer thinks is named Ben.

The DJ is really fucking good, and Spencer cranes his neck at one particularly smooth transition, wondering who it is. Not that he has an encyclopedic knowledge of DJs, but he appreciates a solidly creative rhythm. Brendon turns to him with a bright grin and says, "Oooh, the Killers!" like it's a million years ago and they're at a house party hearing the song for the first time.

Spencer feels impossibly old and young at once, remembering Brendon at 17 in a stupid shirt and worse hair, flailing around with anyone who would let him get within arm's reach. Now Brendon's in a retro Rat Pack phase, all trim slacks and vintage button-downs, and if he wants to make out in the corner with a surfer no one would care even if they noticed.

He lets Brendon pull him into the middle of a cluster of people, lets Brendon shimmy up against him until he has no real choice but to move, too. He lets himself get a little lost there under the glow of lights from the office buildings, a warm Los Angeles breeze washing over them and ruffling Brendon's carefully coifed hair. Brendon slings an arm around Spencer's neck, holding them close together, and his quiet "happy birthday" whispers up against Spencer's ear.

Brendon's lips are hot, his hand on the base of Spencer's back fiery, and something in Spencer's bones melts. Something in his brain breaks loose. Goosebumps rise on his forearms and at the collar of his t-shirt, like the floodgates of the last three months have finally opened and instead of his permanent numb vacation he's actually going to have feelings again.

"Brendon," he huffs out, and curls his fingers in Brendon's shirtsleeve. "Let's go." Brendon stares up at him, blinking, and slowly rolls his hips against Spencer's. "Yeah," Spencer says, "let's go."

*

They almost make it all the way to Brendon's bed. Under a dark, woody scent Spencer doesn't recognize is the same old tang of Brendon's sweat on his tongue. He bends Brendon over the side of the bed, both of them still clothed from the waist up, and pushes in slowly.

Brendon had spent the drive home with one hand in Spencer's lap and it's been a while and it doesn't take long, now, before he's tugging Brendon's hips close and coming. He catches his breath for a minute, palm flat on the comforter as he holds himself above Brendon's back, then pulls out and turns Brendon over, finishing with his mouth.

They lie sideways on the bed, their feet on the floor. Brendon wriggles out of his shirt and sighs happily. "Oh Spencer," he says around a yawn. "You're always my favorite fuck of the year."

Spencer laughs, short and surprised, and listens as Brendon's breaths fade into a soft snore. He closes his eyes for one long minute, wondering if he can be lulled into sleep by the familiar sound. It doesn't work, so he gets up, showers and goes to sleep in the guest room.

*

Brendon's sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar, slurping cereal and keeping his coffee cup close to his lips between sips. He's humming and half-watching some morning show and when he sees Spencer he smiles around his spoon and tries to say good morning all at the same time. Purple-stained milk slides down his chin and Spencer shakes his head.

"It's a fucking miracle you ever get laid," he says without thinking, and it's like his body catches up before his mind, the flush on his cheeks registering first.

Brendon chokes a little on his berry flavored crispy puff things, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "That," he says, "is why I never stay the night."

"Making a quick escape is key."

"Totally," Brendon says. "Wait, what are you talking about? You are in no position to give anyone advice on such things. Unless you've secretly become super slutty and failed to inform the rest of us." Spencer has had sex with four people in his life, including Brendon, and Brendon knows it.

"Shut up," Spencer says.

"Really, I would expect at least a phone call. An email? Some kind of heads up."

Spencer sighs. "Where's your fucking sugar, Brendon."

Brendon tilts his bowl up so he can drink the dregs. "Where it always is, Spence, jeez."

*

They work out a whole plan where Spencer will drop off Brendon at the studio so he can have the car, which is great until Spencer realizes he has nowhere to drive it to, nothing he has to do.

"Well what do you _want_ to do?" Brendon asks, like it's that easy. "I'm not going to let you sit around and feel sorry for yourself all day just because that's what you pull with Ross."

"Fuck off," Spencer tries, and Brendon laughs and says, "no fucking way, dude."

So Spencer goes with him to the studio. Brendon's about halfway through the score to a film, which means at least for a change on the old routine they're in a room dominated by a big screen. It's a quirky indie romantic comedy about a spunky girl and her earnest, underachieving boyfriend, and Brendon sits at a keyboard and lays down preliminary music to accompany their self-inflicted stupidity.

Spencer kicks his heels into the carpet, keeping time, and when Brendon predictably turns around and asks if he'll go grab an electronic drum pad and track some of it to be used later, he does what Brendon wants. It kills the day pretty quickly.

In the car, Callie offers three options for that evening's entertainment: The launch of a new phone, which for some reason she can't explain is being held at a bowling alley. An awards dinner for a dog rescue group. A not-so-secret show for this rock duo who made the surprise hit record of the year.

Spencer shrugs and Brendon says, "Musical superstars, if you please."

*

They eat tacos at beaten-up picnic tables in a parking lot, late afternoon sun beating down on their backs.

"Wait," Brendon says suddenly, "who's taking care of your dogs?"

"She has them." Spencer sighs. "It seemed, I don't know. Fair. She wanted..."

Brendon crunches on chips and waits, but Spencer doesn't know what else to say. He feels like an asshole for not trying harder to keep them, but not as much of an asshole as he thinks he'd have been for making a fight out of it. "I kept the house," he says.

"You bought the house," Brendon points out. "That still sucks, though."

"Yeah, I don't know."

Brendon stabs the bottom of his cup with his straw. "It's okay if it doesn't suck, Spence. Of course it sucks, you know. But it wasn't, like, some sudden thing, or --"

"I _know_." He doesn't mean to snap, but, Jesus, he doesn't need Brendon to tell him that.

Two girls sit down next to them, waving their hands around and laughing meanly. Spencer doesn't have to speak Spanish at a million miles a minute to know shit-talking when he hears it. Brendon hides a smirk behind his napkin and kicks Spencer under the table. Spencer kicks him back.

*

VIP at the venue is way too crowded for Spencer's taste, but the floor isn't any better and Brendon, of course, is at most one degree of separation from everyone everywhere ever. Brendon's sung a duet with at least half of them. Another dude slaps him on the back and Spencer nods again, says his name, says yes when they say, "Oh, you're in Brendon's band!"

Spencer likes people just fine, but he can't remember the last time they were off tour that he went out two nights in a row. A tall model type who's definitely using a fake ID tells Spencer about being in the video for the band they're there to see, about how now she's dating Jack. Whichever one Jack is, because Spencer honestly can never tell them apart, even if it makes him feel like somebody's dad to admit it.

He looks over to the end of the balcony and Brendon has his head thrown back, laughing like a crazy hyena. There's a skinny boy glued to his side, pretty and blond. When Spencer walks up Brendon booms out a "YO!" and puts his palm up for a high five. Spencer slaps his hand, then catches his wrist on the way down.

"You want another drink?" he offers, and Brendon bites his lip, nodding along with the house music and considering the question far too seriously. "You want to come with me to get one?" he tries, and tugs a little on Brendon's arm.

"Yeah, okay," Brendon says, but doesn't move. The kid stands there, looking back and forth between Brendon and Spencer, and finally Spencer takes a step and Brendon follows along.

"I'll see you later?" the kid says, and Brendon makes some noncommittal noise. It's one of the lamest attempts Spencer's ever witnessed on both accounts.

At the bar they do shots, on Brendon's suggestion. Spencer nods towards a relatively less populated edge at the railing and they claim it, staring out at the crowd.

"How many people here have you slept with?" Spencer asks. He says it as calmly as possible. He's just curious.

"Just him. I think." Brendon actually looks a little sheepish. "I don't know, LA is a weirdly small town sometimes."

"How many people have you fucked this year?"

"Math is hard," Brendon whines.

"That's not math, it's counting."

Brendon turns around, waving down a waitress for another round, and does his thing where it's like if he's not talking they weren't actually having a conversation before. He hands Spencer the tequila and Spencer downs it. He thinks about going back to the bar and having another or four, but then the guys and their band come on stage, guitars in hand.

At the first break for witty banter, Brendon leans close, lips almost touching Spencer's ear. "I wasn't bullshitting you. Last night, when I said --"

Spencer bends away. "C'mon, don't --"

The next song starts loud and fast, heavy drums and an angry guitar. Brendon taps his foot, then stops himself. He pops his knuckles, then twines his fingers together. He crackles with barely restrained energy and Spencer wants to pick him up and shake him by the shoulders, ask him what the fuck is going on, ask him why now, after all this time, after that morning was perfectly fine, they're both being so fucking weird about it.

That song goes right into another, and that one goes on and on like a fucking jam band has taken up residence on stage. When it finally ends, finally, Spencer feels a little queasy. Brendon is staring at his shoes and Spencer touches his back without really meaning to. Brendon's eyes flick up to Spencer's, then down again. He bumps their shoulders together once, stands up straight, and turns into Spencer. "I'm over this," he announces, voice low but steady.

Spencer follows him out. Brendon is all but stomping his feet on the carpet as they make their way down the stairs and into the empty lobby. There's a bored merch girl and a bartender who pretends he wasn't just pouring himself a double. Spencer grabs Brendon's elbow. "What? What's --"

"You're asking the wrong question," Brendon mutters.

"What?"

"Before, that's not what you should be asking."

Spencer sighs. He's not interested in _more_ details about Brendon's sex life, and it's his own fault for starting this. "Look, no," he says, "I didn't have any right --"

Brendon laughs, but it has a diamond edge to it, glassy and hard. "I think of anyone you have the right to ask that."

"It's okay," Spencer tries, and Brendon shakes his head. "Fine. Fine. What question should I be asking?"

"Ask me how many of them I've fucked more than once."

"Brendon." Brendon crosses his arms and Spencer mirrors him without meaning to. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and says, "Fine. How many people this year have you hooked up with more than once?"

"Not this year," Brendon says.

It takes Spencer a minute. "How many -- since Shane? Is that the question?"

"Three," Brendon says. "There was this girl, Serena, who I, I don't know, I guess we dated for like a month, maybe, after Shane and I -- after the second time. Then there was Scott. I didn't really mean to date Scott but I guess after fucking four or times that's what he thought was going on."

Spencer's not sure what he's supposed to say. He leans against the wall, but Brendon takes a step towards him again so now Spencer's actually got less space than he did before.

"Oh, wait, and -- it's four, not three. Sorry, shit. I think his name was Sam. I don't know, after Scott I had this crazy idea that maybe twice was okay, you know? Like, obviously not twice in a night, two different nights. But he -- whatever, twice was definitely not okay, and so after that..." Brendon scuffs his toe. "And you," he says, more quietly. "That's four."

The merch girl is staring at them, that puzzled look that means they look familiar but she's not sure yet why.

"So I don't know what that means to you --"

"You've got a thing for people whose names start with S?"

Brendon spins around, throwing his arms up in the air and letting out an exasperated groan.

"Okay," Spencer says, "Jesus, don't make a fucking scene about it." He tilts his chin at their too deliberately disinterested audience. "So you're only easy on the first date, I get it."

"Oh, fuck off." Spencer thinks for a second he's going to get a grin, that they're all right now. But then Brendon says, "Why don't we ever celebrate my birthday?"

"Um, because it's in April?"

"We were on tour in April, we were both there."

Spencer remembers spring mostly as the time when he stopped telling himself his marriage would get better.

"Why is it that your birthday is always the exception, it's always --"

"I didn't, it wasn't a fucking _plan_ , Brendon."

"Bullshit, don't tell me you came out here this week and thought nothing would happen. Especially not now when we're both, when we wouldn't even have to -- fuck, sneak around."

"It's not like that."

"Oh?" Brendon's voice is too calm. "So you told Ryan?"

"That, it's not _like_ that," Spencer says, hating how he hears himself whine.

"It's exactly like that. It's your birthday or a few days after, a week, whatever, and we get wasted and sneak off somewhere and fuck around and it doesn't count because it's just us, because it's no big deal, because what the fuck ever excuse we use that year to make ourselves feel okay about it."

It is like that.

The first time, Spencer was having what Ryan charitably referred to as a quarter-life crisis and Spencer called a nervous breakdown. Haley had gotten pregnant and then lost the baby almost right away, and after the time they'd already decided to not have one it was too much. She'd freaked out and gone home to her folks' for a while. The parents she'd barely talked to in six years. He wasn't even sure she'd come back, especially not when it was his birthday and he was lonely and stoned and miserable and Brendon was just as fucking beautiful as he'd always been, right there all along.

Brendon doesn't look like he feels as shitty as Spencer did then, but he doesn't look happy either. And he's right.

Spencer takes a deep breath. "What do you want for your birthday?"

"Ask me in April," Brendon snaps.

He hauls Brendon closer and waits until he can hear himself think over the roar in his head. "What do you want for your birthday," he says again, and stands as close as he can, shoulder brushing Brendon's. He can feel Brendon's smile creep up before he looks down to see it. Brendon brushes the corner of his mouth against Spencer's jaw.

"I want you to drive," Brendon says, and carefully steps back. "Think you can handle the mean streets?"

Spencer holds his hand out for the keys. "As long as you keep your hands to yourself."

"That seems unlikely," Brendon says.

*

They manage to make it home in one piece, and Brendon insists they leave the lights on. "It's a new dawn," he says, stripping off Spencer's t-shirt.

They've done it fully naked in a bed once before, Spencer's 27th or 28th, out on the road for a short tour. They had adjoining rooms and Spencer never found out if Brendon had worked it that way or if it was just coincidence. It was right around when it became obvious to everyone that Brendon and Shane weren't going to be on again, that they were done for real, and Spencer remembers he felt charitable for how easily he'd cheered Brendon up, like he was doing a good deed by fucking one of his best friends behind the backs of everyone else he loved.

Brendon shoves Spencer up against the dresser and drops to his knees. He's naked and his limbs are folded neatly, heels under his ass, calves under his thighs, wrists twined together behind his back. His neck is stretched up and his mouth is open. "C'mon," he says, "I know you love it like this."

Drunkenly giving into nostalgia and loneliness and fucking Brendon at 25 was without a doubt the stupidest thing Spencer has ever done. The fact that he keeps coming back for more is proof that Spencer is a grade A idiot who has never learned a goddamned thing from his mistakes.

Of course Brendon is also by far the best lay Spencer has ever had, so the fact that he will always, _always_ throw back in Spencer's face everything he's ever gleaned about what gets Spencer off is both predictable and further evidence of Spencer's stupidity. It is also, maybe, _maybe_ , the best thing that's ever happened to Spencer's sex life.

Brendon's chin is titled up, his eyes expectant. "C'mon," he whispers, breath puffing across Spencer's stomach. Spencer's hands shake as he pulls his cock out and drags it across Brendon's lips. Brendon moans and licks around the head, bending to nudge his nose along Spencer's balls. Spencer doesn't really give a fuck if Brendon tells everyone they've ever met how much Spencer loves it when Brendon is all but begging for Spencer to fuck his mouth.

Which is exactly what he's going to do. He holds the back of Brendon's head with one hand and wraps the other around the base of his cock because then there's no reason for Brendon to ever raise his arms. Spencer loves it like this, loves Brendon on his knees and willing, even if it stung the first time he realized Brendon wouldn't let him forget it when they were done. He teases the fuck out of Spencer with a deadly accuracy no one else can come close to matching because Spencer doesn't want to screw anyone the way he wants to screw Brendon.

Of the three other people Spencer has slept with, two were one-time-only things -- a girl he met at a party right after Fever dropped, because it was fucking ridiculous that he was a 17-year-old almost-rock star and still a virgin, and then a guy named Andrew he let pick him up at a bar last year, when he knew things weren't working with Haley and he was hoping desperately for an easier explanation why.

Sex with Brendon isn't like any of that. He might as well be new at fucking for all the good any of those other experiences have done him with Brendon. He thrusts down Brendon's throat, moaning loud, and when he comes he keeps one hand on Brendon's shoulder until they've both caught their breath. Then he lets Brendon leverage himself up with a hand on Spencer's waist, turning Spencer around and walking them to the bed.

Spencer lies on his back, arms reached up to hold the headboard, as Brendon fucks into him. He likes this too, as Brendon occasionally and crudely reminds him, usually with some kind of pointed joke about starfish. He likes getting fucked, or at least likes getting fucked by Brendon, even if it seems to take getting his brains sucked out through his dick to admit it. He likes to spread his legs and tilt his hips and bend his knees and grunt when Brendon throws back his head and laughs and comes all at once, just like always.

He wants to touch Brendon after, like always, to keep their skin close and hot and sweaty up against each other. With one leg draped over Brendon's knee he traces each rib and around both nipples and along each soft ridge of his abdomen. He holds Brendon's still-soft cock loosely, pressing dry kisses along Brendon's arm, and starts to slowly move his hand.

Brendon makes some nonsensical statement, clears his throat and tries again. "You've been fucking women way too long." He bats ineffectually at Spencer's arm. "You have totally unrealistic expectations."

Spencer licks his palm and pulls Brendon harder, ignoring one more lame round of denials. After a while Brendon sighs like he's so put upon and reaches out for Spencer. They jerk each other like that, wrists colliding and knees bruising into thighs. Brendon's eyes are closed and he's sprawled across most of the bed when he laughs low and says, "And one to grow on." He's asleep with a satisfied hum before Spencer can think of a comeback.

*

He tags along again to the studio and Brendon retaliates by making him play tambourine for hours over a scene where the heroine tries on 12 kinds of lingerie. They take a break for Brendon to talk through a collaboration with this girl Greta introduced them to, and Spencer kicks around behind the sound board, making small talk with the engineer.

"Brendon works fast," the guy, Henry, says around a mouthful of chips. "I keep thinking there's some instrument he doesn't play --"

"Nope," Spencer says, and then Brendon sneaks up behind him and snaps the waistband of his underwear hard enough that Spencer accidentally lets out what might be characterized as a yelp.

Brendon's the one who picked the briefs out on their shopping spree, all ridiculous designer colors with retarded names like Indigo Dreams and Frolicking Forest. "You need something to liven up the man in black routine," he'd said, shoving them on top of Spencer's three variously charcoal sweaters as the clerk giggled.

Spencer grabs Brendon around the neck and pins him to his chest, almost falling backwards in the chair as Brendon head-butts him. "Girls, girls," Henry says mildly, and they get back to work.

*

The night's winning option is a gallery opening for last year's It Boy's photography, where they eat the best amuse-bouche Spencer's ever had in his life. The cater-waiter calls it _tapas del teatro_ and after Spencer's third question about ingredients offers to take him back to where the chef is prepping the food. Brendon's geeking out about 18th century violins with some goth-looking guy and just trails his fingers over Spencer's stomach as he walks away.

The kitchen is half-exposed to the room, sleek stainless steel with burners and a small sink. Spencer wants to smooth his palm across the counter just to see if he can leave a streak, but instead he introduces himself to the chef, who of course has to be fucking gorgeous _and_ Spanish and though he clearly has no idea who Spencer is walks him through assembling trout, saffron cake and tangerine foam into a tiny leaning tower.

"Here, allow me," he says, bumping their hips together and lifting their creation to Spencer's mouth. His fingers brush warm and rough against Spencer's lips and he swallows far too quickly to appreciate the taste.

He can feel his pulse thudding just under his collarbone, a loud swing beat, and years spent sitting on a couch flipping between CNN and the Food Network did not at all prepare him for something like this.

"Now, the perfect wine to finish would be --"

Brendon skids around the corner and says, "Aha!" like a fucking magician. Brendon Interruptus the Magnificent. Spencer scowls as Brendon snares him by the wrist and makes their regrets and produces the valet ticket with a flourish. The attendant closes his door with a smooth click and Spencer says, "You know, I was kind of in the middle of something there."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "I only turn 26 once," he says.

In the hallway between bedrooms Brendon pins Spencer face first to the wall and shoves three fingers in his mouth. "Suck," he says, biting Spencer's earlobe, and Spencer arches his back until Brendon's cock is snug against his ass. Brendon cups his other hand over Spencer's zipper and Spencer comes in his pants.

*

"You want to talk to Jon?" Brendon asks, already holding the phone out. They're having lunch outside at a cafe and Spencer is playing with the dog at the table next to them. He tells Jon it's a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and Jon says, decisively, "You should get one, Spence, you should get a dog." Jon is the last person to hand out unsolicited life advice, so Spencer agrees.

They talk about Jon's other band -- "my _side project_ ," he says again, as if their deliberately lazy schedule means there's any real competition for time. They do a Panic album every third year or so, tour off and on the year following, and then take a break. Eventually Jon picks up the phone and says, "It's disco time!" or something equally lame and they start comparing calendars.

Jon's Chicago band is doing a short run up the East Coast in November, mostly colleges and even a few bars, and Spencer says he'll be sure to come catch a show. "We can't all be busy scene queens like Brendon," he says, and Jon laughs and promises to save a seat in the van.

Nobody mentions garage doors or divorces or actual life plans and Spencer feels pretty good when he hangs up. Brendon's just staring at him, a half-chewed straw hanging out of his mouth, so Spencer leans over and kisses his grin.

They only manage to kill about 20 minutes at a video game launch that night, just long enough to slaughter a dozen robots each, before Brendon says, "Yeah, fuck this," and steers Spencer into a bathroom.

On the way out, Brendon snickers at the offer of a complimentary cocktail. He says, "Cocktail," with a snort, and Spencer claps the back of his head and tells him to stop acting like a 15-year-old. Later Brendon insists they make out for an hour, hands outside their clothes. He lies on his back on the couch and tells Spencer to please take it easy because it's his first time.

"It's not even your first time tonight," Spencer says, but he still fucks Brendon more carefully and slowly than he ever has anyone ever before, and he does feel 15, if only the 15-year-old he'd wanted to be in his mind.

*

Ryan calls three times while Spencer is adding chimes to Brendon's organ as the lead guy confronts his girlfriend's sister. "This is the stupidest movie I've ever seen 87 times," he says to Brendon as he steps out into the sunny alley behind the studio, phone in hand.

"Can you please tell Brendon that using church bells for a scene that takes place in a fucking church is obvious, not ironic?" he says instead of hello when Ryan picks up.

"I --" Ryan starts, and Spencer hears him take a big breath. "I am really fucking pissed off at you," he says, and Spencer is caught between wanting to laugh, because he knows it took two years in therapy for Ryan to be able to say something like that, and total terror, because he's had way more practice at Ryan's passive aggressive snit fits than this kind of fight. Whatever it is they're fighting about.

He says, "Okay." Fuck, what did he do?

"Five years? You and Brendon, for _five years_ \--"

Oh. There's that. "It was just --"

"And don't tell me it's not a big deal. It's _Brendon_. That's like, that would be like if you and -- if you and I had --"

"Oh my God, Ryan, no it's not, it's _not_ like that at all." He leans back against the brick wall and wipes one sweaty hand on his jeans. "It's -- it _was_ just this thing, it just happened." He sighs. "And then it happened again, and then it was like this yearly thing, and -- and I just felt like an asshole saying it out loud, you know? Because Haley, it wasn't, it didn't have anything to do with her. It was just -- it's just _Brendon_."

Everyone they know has fallen for Brendon at least once. His voice or his ass, Jon used to joke. One or the other will get them every time.

After a while, Ryan says, "Yeah."

" _You're_ the one who told me to come out here --"

"I didn't realize the added incentive."

"I didn't know it was, like -- I don't even know if it _is_ a thing!"

Ryan says, "I don't really think I want to talk about this."

"Oh, okay," Spencer says, because now that they _are_ he could kind of use someone who isn't Brendon to talk to about this.

"Not, I don't know -- maybe not yet."

"Okay," Spencer says dully.

"I don't really appreciate being the last to know," Ryan says, and Spencer says, "What?" Ryan slowly repeats himself, each word separate and distinct like maybe Spencer is extra stupid.

"I didn't," he says, and then remembers Brendon's bemused giggle on the phone the day before. Brendon said, "These things just _happen_ , Jon Walker," and it could have been about anything but now Spencer knows it was about him. "I didn't mean for you to be," he tells Ryan. "I swear."

"Okay," Ryan says.

"Okay we're okay?" Spencer echoes back hopefully.

"I mean okay, I'm hanging up now," Ryan clarifies. And he does.

Spencer stands out there in the September sun, dark jeans too tight and hot on his skin, long-sleeved black shirt like a slab of asphalt melting into the edge of the desert, and blinks away a sudden sting of tears.

It's been so long since he and Ryan had anything real to fight about. They'd quarreled, Ryan would say in his precise way, right after Ryan started seeing a shrink. Ryan had been raw and ragged and threatened to quit even if it meant Keltie left for good, and Spencer had to say out loud exactly how scary it was to watch Ryan do his disappearing act. Ryan hadn't spoken to him for a week, until after his second session, when he had emailed a short, crisp apology along with the receipt for six months of prepaid appointments.

Otherwise they haven't bickered about anything bigger than a beat or a bunk assignment in years -- maybe a decade. Some days he's not sure he even understands what it means to have known one person for so much of his life, for all of his life that's ever mattered.

Brendon bursts out into the alley, the heavy metal door clanging against the brick wall. "Dude," he says, "did I totally fuck up?"

Spencer tucks his phone back into his pants. "Yeah," he says, then, "no, it wasn't -- it was my thing, I should have told Ryan."

"I told Jon," Brendon says, and scuffs his toe through gravel.

"Yeah, I know."

"A while ago." Green glass shards sparkle around Brendon's shoes. "Like, right after the first time, actually."

Spencer can tell they both look up at the same time.

"I was kinda freaked out," Brendon admits. "Plus I sort of expected Ryan to shank me."

"To --" Spencer has to hold his stomach he's laughing so hard. Eventually he says, around hiccups of hysteria, "to shank you." Brendon nods seriously. "Ryan can barely cut an apple."

"I had just hooked up with _Spencer Smith_. I was supposed to keep that shit to myself?"

"You should come with a warning label, honestly, Brendon."

Brendon smiles like a loon. "You knew me when, man. Pretty sure you've always been clear on what you were getting yourself into."

"That is true," Spencer says. He squints up at where the sun is sliding behind the building and then back to Brendon, one leg propped against the wall, thumbs in his pockets. "I don't feel like going out tonight," he says, and Brendon shrugs amiably.

Spencer holds open the fire door and follows Brendon back into the cool dark studio. "We've gotta go," Spencer tells Henry. "Band thing."

+

He wakes up with his face smushed into Brendon's pillow and the distinct impression there is more dried spunk on the sheets than clean, dry patches. He should take a shower and do some laundry, but it's not his house, not his bed. He smells coffee and pads out to the kitchen naked. Brendon is wearing aquamarine underwear and poking at the toaster oven.

"I miss the kind you just push down," he says, and hits another button. Spencer crowds up behind him, closing his eyes for a second at the light brush of his chest hair against Brendon's smooth bare back. He bends down to kiss Brendon's neck, running his hands down Brendon's ribs and rubbing his cock against the swell above Brendon's ass.

The bagels burn while Spencer sucks him off. "Bet you're glad now I pulled the batteries out of that smoke detector," Brendon says, and Spencer kisses him, messy and a little mean.

Around noon, after they shower and get dressed and make another round of breakfast, Brendon stands up decisively, shoving his phone and wallet in his pants. "We're going now?" Spencer asks, wiping his mouth and getting up. He leans in for a quick peck and Brendon turns his cheek, sitting down heavily.

"We're -- we're not boyfriends," Brendon says, and Spencer sits down too. "I know Ross is pissed and that seriously freaks you out and this -- this is awesome, don't get me wrong."

Spencer swallows. "Yeah, I know," he says.

"You're my favorite fuck, like, _ever_ , Spence, no bullshit." Brendon sounds almost wistful and Spencer braces himself. "And you're my best friend too, you know, and that's fucking awesome. But you're kind of --"

Spencer reminds himself he's never actually thrown a punch and that he's not about to start with Brendon.

"Um," Brendon says gently. "I think the word is rebound?"

He sits with that for a minute, rolling it around in his mind. Then he takes a deep breath and says, calmly, "You're the one who said it was okay if it doesn't suck. And Haley and I, for a long time we --"

"You drove your _car_ through your _house_."

"That wasn't about her," Spencer says quickly. Brendon just raises an eyebrow. "It wasn't just about her," he amends. "It was -- I mean, Brendon, what the fuck am I supposed to do with my life?"

"I don't know, but you've got to have a better plan than playing the tambourine for shitty movie soundtracks even I'm not all that excited about."

He doesn't have a plan. He stares for a while at the crumbs on his plate and then somehow manages to say that out loud.

Brendon says, "So try a couple of things out. Wasn't that the point of being such a fucking cheapskate for all this time?"

"I'm not --"

"You've got plenty to fuck around with, Spence. Try some shit, see what sticks."

"Like what."

Brendon squints like he thinks Spencer is making a joke.

"Look, I know I'm fucking lost if I'm asking you for advice, you don't have to be an asshole about it."

"Jesus, fine. Just pick something. Take cooking classes. Find a bar that will let you DJ. Get some crazy kids with a band who need a manager. Go, I don't know, go enroll in fucking film school. Or start asking around and put together another band to play with when we're off tour, you could --"

"I don't want another band."

Brendon stands up. "Fine," he says. "You're so smart, figure it out for yourself."

*

Spencer sits on the couch and feels sorry for himself for about five minutes. Then he finds his sunglasses and calls a cab. There are about 20 dealerships all down one street in Glendale and he wanders from one to the next, dodging smooth-talking salesmen and digging grit out of his eyes. "Santa Anas," one lady says as they stand side-by-side and inspect the sticker on a car window. He wishes he'd had that excuse in Vegas every time he needed to wipe his face.

There's a low-slung sports car, a convertible, in a shimmery baby blue. It's pretty fucking ridiculous. "It's a hybrid!" chirps the 20-year-old asshole who's been hovering around him.

Spencer says, "Is there any way for me to drive this without you coming along?" and hands over almost everything in his wallet in exchange for the keys. He takes any turn that looks good for a while and then lets the computer tell him how to get back. The speakers are better than the ones in his old car, light years better than Brendon's. His legs don't feel too long. His head doesn't feel too tall.

He pulls back into the lot and walks into the office and finds a manager. "No trade-in?" she asks. It still takes an hour to process all the paperwork.

Eventually he remembers the name of the studio where Brendon's working and then the car can point him in the right direction. He sees an Indian place he remembers eating at once a few years back and breaks at least three traffic laws getting into the parking lot. It's worth it for the easy smile he gets from Brendon when he comes in with the take-out bags, waving his new keys.

"Well, don't you get an A for initiative," Brendon says, and Spencer says, "Shut the fuck up and enjoy your nan."

"Now what," Brendon asks later, crunching on a licorice candy.

"Call Callie?"

"Nah," Brendon says.

"Go back to your place?" Spencer tries.

"Uh-uh." He folds the candy wrapper into something that is maybe a tiny origami swan, and when he's done he balances it on the back of Spencer's wrist. His fingers skid over the burns he got at Ryan's. "Cry for help?"

"Barbecue gone bad." Spencer shrugs. "It was an accident."

"I know what you think about accidents," Brendon says.

"I'll sign up for Kitchen Safety 101 first thing tomorrow. Happy?"

Brendon laughs at that, and Spencer thinks, okay, this is going to be okay. Then Brendon says, "I think what you really need is to fuck some other people."

"Uh. What?"

"A lot of other people," Brendon says, and sounds like he means it. "That's my, hmm, let's call it a strong suggestion."

"So you mean you won't sleep with me again until I sleep with someone else."

Brendon won't meet his eyes when he says, "Something like that, yeah. Something exactly like that."

"That's bullshit."

"Well," Brendon says. "Them's the breaks. I'm nobody's backup plan, sweetheart."

*  
Brendon offers to introduce him to some nice people, and because Spencer is a moron, he agrees.

Julie is Brendon's old publicist, and Spencer takes her to sushi. "So you're going to film school?" she asks over yellowtail, and Spencer says, "What?"

"Brendon said you just started at USC," she says.

Spencer lays down his chopsticks. "Did he mention I'm in the middle of getting divorced?"

*

Sasha is neither Russian nor a woman, no matter what Brendon implied. They go to a soul food place off Crenshaw that Spencer's car computer says Zagat recommends.

"I can't remember the details," Sasha says. "What kind of restaurant are you opening?"

Spencer says, "Something that serves pie. Meat pies."

Sasha's handsy and hot in that strong-jawed way Spencer's always appreciated in men from cologne ads. Sasha is, in fact, a male model, and he jerks Spencer off in his pristine front seat and licks his fingers clean. Spencer says he'll call, and he means to save the number but when he looks the next day it doesn't seem to have worked.

*

Seth is slender and smart and likes four of Spencer's new favorite bands and two he's never heard of. They eat pho in a tiny Silverlake restaurant and when Seth says, "How do you like DJing?" Spencer says he loves it. "Is that tough to balance with studying astronomy?" Seth asks.

Spencer finishes his beer. "Is that what Brendon told you?"

"I think?" Seth says. "I was just happy to hear from him again, honestly. You know how you meet someone and you think there's this great connection, and then, boom, it's like they fall off the face of the earth?"

*

Brendon says, "I wasn't going to set you up with someone who's bad in bed." He's unrepentant, arms crossed. "I thought you might like Seth! He has really good taste in music."

"Oh, and what did you like best about Sasha?"

"He's kind of dirty," Brendon says with an appreciative smirk. On the TV a commercial trumps a new floor wax that's clinically proven to remove 99 percent of all grime. "See, quality control is important!"

Brendon is still chuckling like this is the year's best joke, Spencer and his sloppy seconds. Spencer hasn't had sex with anyone other than Sasha's hand in five days, and the mattress in Brendon's spare room sags in the middle and he fucking hit his forehead that morning getting out of his own goddamned car.

"You shouldn't be giving anyone advice about anything," he says, and it comes out exactly as angry and bitter as it felt rattling around his head.

Brendon's eyebrows scrunch together. "I give awesome advice."

"What advice would you give a guy who moved to LA with his boyfriend, oh, almost 10 years ago, has slept with every guy in Southern California since and still avoids the actual issue of his sexuality whenever possible?"

"Coming out is so 2004." Brendon delivers the line with his chin up and a cocky smirk. It's probably worked wonders in the past. "I do what I want and everybody knows it."

"You do everything but talk about it," Spencer snaps.

"We're talking about it," Brendon points out. "People talk about it. My _mom_ talks about it." He turns off the TV and throws the remote on the coffee table but it just bounces once, skipping off to land in the carpet. "What fucking else do you want me to say about it, Spencer?"

He feels the anger make him flush, face hot under his facial hair, skin itchy under his clothes. "I don't know," he says, "how about anything you actually mean? Anything that actually means something to you, that isn't just showing off how clever you are."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Spencer is so fucking sick of Brendon and his big ideas, of Brendon acting like his lonely, slutty life is something to be proud of, something to want to package and franchise and syndicate to the lowest bidder.

"Why'd you stop recording your own shit?" he asks, and Brendon flinches. "When's the last time you wrote a song for yourself and sang it and put it out there? Just because you do one album and people didn't like it, and then one song that everybody loves but you'll never discuss -- and so what, so you've got a wait list a mile long of people who want a piece of you. So fucking what that you've got more work than you know how to handle. You won't sing about your own life, and your songs are worse for it."

Brendon bites his lip. "Fine," he says. "Find your own fucking dates." He slams his bedroom door and Spencer slams his too for good measure.

*

Brendon's left the house by the time Spencer gets up the next day, and when he comes into the studio to try to apologize for being an asshole about shit that has nothing to do with him, Brendon walks out before Spencer can even open his mouth.

He sinks down into the rolling chair next to Henry's. "So," he says, with a nod at the screen on the other side of the glass. "Does the plucky heroine ever convince her loser boyfriend to open his heart to love?"

Henry says, "I do not pay attention to these things unless I absolutely have to."

"That seems like a wise strategy."

"It gets me through the day." Henry has a warm smile that peeks through his reddish beard.

Spencer studies his nails a while. "So what do you do at night?"

When he looks up Henry's head is cocked to the side and he's staring at Spencer. "Are you asking me out?"

"Yeah," Spencer says.

"I kinda thought you and Brendon..."

"Brendon doesn't date," he says, and Henry laughs and says, "All right, fine. Tonight? Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Spencer says. He doesn't have anything going on before that but he likes the idea of having something to look forward to.

*

Spencer goes shopping for something to wear on his date, wandering down Melrose and dodging kids with more piercings than brain cells. It's almost October and still in the 80s. He asks the clerk to cut the tag off an overpriced allegedly authentic vintage t-shirt. He's not sure he's avoided looking like a douchebag but at least he's less uncomfortable.

Ryan calls while he's trying on shoes. "How much of an asshole do you think I am that I couldn't handle the fact that you and Brendon hooked up? We've been friends for 25 fucking years, Spence, I'm not going to judge you for who you sleep with."

"I know," Spencer says.

"And I can't believe you thought Brendon would actually be able to keep a secret."

"Jesus, I know, I'm sorry." He shoves tissue paper back into the shoes and ties his own back up.

"Okay," Ryan says, and after a long stretch of silence adds, "We're okay."

"Thank God." Spencer's laugh sounds a little more serious than he'd meant it to but if there's anyone who will let it pass, it's Ryan.

"So how's Brendon," Ryan asks.

"Well, I told him his songs are shitty because he doesn't know how to write honest lyrics."

"Huh," Ryan says. "I guess that's one approach."

"I don't think he's talking to me." Spencer sighs. "Plus I -- I may have asked out the sound engineer at the studio where he's recording."

"Maybe when you're done you could piss in the corners of his condo."

"I thought you weren't going to judge me for who I sleep with!"

"You slept with the sound engineer? What is wrong with you."

"Ryan --"

Ryan laughs.

"Fuck," Spencer says. "I miss you, you sadistic fuck. Tell me some crazy story about Keltie's pregnant cravings already."

*

Brendon doesn't come home that night, but he's eating eggs at the breakfast bar when Spencer gets up in the morning. Spencer doesn't even pour his coffee before he says, "I'm an asshole, and I'm sorry."

"I already knew both of those things," Brendon says.

"Well then," Spencer says, "can you tell me if Henry is any good in bed?"

Brendon sets down his fork. "You have a date with Henry? Henry my sound engineer Henry?"

"Oh, is his name Henry?" Spencer makes himself an extra-large cup of coffee.

"Wow," Brendon says, and whistles something that sounds suspiciously like "back in the saddle again." This is how it goes with them. Brendon can't remember to hold a grudge long enough to make it hurt, and if Spencer lets him off too easy in exchange it's only fair play.

"Don't tell me you've been working with this guy for months and haven't banged him yet."

"Banged is such a strong word," Brendon says.

"Made sweet tender love to?" Spencer blows delicately across his mug. "Wait, am I only allowed to date people who have been pre-approved? You weren't all that specific."

"Fuck you."

"Hmm. Sasha _did_ give me a handjob. Our deal is that I get an equal amount of sex from you for whatever I do with anyone else, right? I'm okay with rounding up if you are."

"I don't do halfsies," Brendon says right away, way serious.

Spencer says, "Then I'll be sure to let you know when my punch card is full."

*

He's trimming his beard when Brendon barges into the guest bathroom. He perches his ass on the lip of the sink and rubs the back of his knuckles over Spencer's chin.

"It looks good short," he says. He gives Spencer the once-over in the mirror. "Yeah," he says, then bites his lip and slides off the counter, clapping Spencer's shoulder. "Henry will haul you off to his cave and make a man of you for sure."

Spencer sets down the scissors. "Pretty sure you get that trophy."

"You'll make someone a very fine trophy boy, don't you worry." Brendon straightens Spencer's collar, a sad smirk fleeting across his face.

When he looks up, Spencer kisses him. Brendon oomphs in surprise, but it quickly rounds out into a pleased groan with a bonus hand down the front of Spencer's pants.

"Hey, hey," Spencer says, but can't really be bothered to do any more complaining than that.

"Just gonna take the edge off," Brendon murmurs into his collarbone. "Don't want you to be all distracted during dinner and miss the good stuff."

Spencer's head hits the edge of something square. "Fuck, I hate you," he says.

Brendon twists his hand. "You hate me so much," he says, and bites Spencer just below the neckline.

*

Henry got a haircut and a sweater-vest. He tugs at the hem as the waiter hands them their menus and says, "I have to tell you, it's been a while since I went on a date."

Spencer swirls the ice in his water glass and says, "Wait, this is a date?" Henry kicks him under the table and Spencer is surprised when his own laugh comes out warm and real. "I've been married for -- well, we met when I was 18. What's your excuse?"

"What, were you looking for a daddy?"

Spencer is really, really glad he'd decided not to have any bread yet, because choking is never sexy, no matter what Brendon says. He still does a decent job of humiliating himself coughing on dry air, though. He waves off Henry's offered glass and his Heimlich charades.

"I really hope the punchline here isn't you were sold into sex slavery and spent a decade tied up in some dude's basement, or I'm going to feel like a real asshole."

"Worse," Spencer says. "She was 17 and still living with her parents."

"Oh shit," Henry says.

"Okay, I ripped off the band-aid -- and that sucked way worse than they said it would, by the way. Your turn."

"My husband -- or, not really my husband any more, sorry --"

 _Please, please don't let him be dead_ , Spencer thinks.

"Your _face_ ," Henry says. "He's not dead or anything. It's just so stupid and so LA and so gay."

"Now you have to tell me, Jesus." Spencer smiles. "I was totally imagining his funeral."

Henry sighs dramatically and holds his napkin to his forehead. "He ran off with the pool boy."

"Oh my God," Spencer says, and tries very, very hard not to giggle. Henry kicks him again when the waiter comes to take their order.

*

Everything is going fine -- better than fine, things are going really well, they're having fun and getting to know each other and nobody's spilled tomato sauce anywhere vital. And then Henry asks him about Brendon.

"I really thought you two --"

"No," Spencer says. "Well, not --" He takes another sip of wine but his glass is empty.

"So you are?" Henry asks it slowly, like he knows he doesn't want to know but can't stop himself from asking anyway. It's so fucking real of him, real and sweet and Spencer is just an unmitigated asshole.

"I don't know what we are," he says, and it's shitty but it's true. "Fuck, I thought it'd -- I still have a _wife_ ," he says. "Here I thought that would be the deal-breaker."

Henry pours them both another glass of wine. "How long have you known Brendon?"

"Even longer," Spencer says. "Shit, I'm sorry, this --" He sighs. "This is really not how I saw tonight going."

"I thought it was all proceeding way too smoothly. It was either this or you were, I don't know, an alien."

"I could be an alien."

"No, you're way too hot," Henry says. "Damn."

Spencer says, "Let me buy you something awful for dessert. Something with lots of whipped cream."

"And you can tell me why you're going on dates with guys whose husbands left them for the pool boy."

"Pool boys are stupid."

"Stupid and hot, just like God made them. Come on, cheer me up. Tell me a sad story about being in love with Brendon Urie."

Spencer flicks a nail against the curve of his glass and it chimes lightly. "How long have you got?"

*

They talk through cappuccinos and the most elaborately, elegantly reconstructed tiramisu Spencer's ever seen. There's a wine bar across the street, so they share a flight of California reds and talk some more. Henry, Spencer realizes, is the first person not in his band or related to him or almost-previously married to him that he's actually _talked_ to in a long, long time.

 _This is what the rest of us call having a friend_ , Ryan would say, and Spencer grins at himself in the sliver of glass peeking out behind shelves of bottles as Henry goes to the bathroom. He pulls out his phone to say as much to Ryan and there are 14 new texts, all from Brendon. They've been having such a nice time he hasn't looked at his phone in hours, but lack of response has never dissuaded Brendon, especially not when there's something he wants or thinks might be getting away.

Spencer opens one in the middle.

 _just saying, there's a popsicle here with your name on it!_

The bar is maybe 50 feet from front to back and Spencer can see as Henry wrestles the tiny door open. He types quickly -- _thx back later_ \-- and puts his phone in his coat pocket.

Henry smiles as he settles back on the stool next to Spencer, signaling the bartender.

"Do you want another?" Spencer suggests just as Henry says, "I should probably go."

"Oh," Spencer says.

"I've got a match tomorrow morning."

"Right, rugby," Spencer remembers.

"And I think you've probably got all the friendly action you can handle," Henry says. "Or I'd tell you to come home with me anyway."

Spencer considers the offer, and Henry patiently lets him. Henry has the bold forearms of a roadie and a goofy giggle and four dogs he shares with the best friend who co-owns his duplex. He didn't go to college, either, just spent two years on the North Shore bumming around beaches before a surf buddy decided to record the sound of the sea. They went foot by foot around the island with a home-made microphone.

He already knows more about Henry, and Henry knows more about him, than anyone he's met on his own in years.

"I think you're probably right," he says finally, "and if there's a way to say I really would like us to be friends without sounding like a fucking asshole --"

"That works for me," Henry says, and wraps Spencer up in a hard hug.

*

Spencer spends 10 minutes in the parking lot figuring out how to disable the navigation system and then drives, just drives as fast as he can and as far as he wants.

It's late enough that the freeways are mostly empty and Los Angeles feels like a whole other city. It's like taking off a tight jacket and discovering you can fly, like sitting down behind his kit for the first time in a while and stretching with his sticks in hand.

He sails across overpasses and skims along the shoulder of the PCH, craning his neck to watch the reflection of the moon in the ocean. Eventually he stops for gas and shitty coffee at a tiny station with a colorful hand-painted sign for ahi burgers, then heads roughly back in the other direction.

He drives slower this time, sticking to surface streets and sliding through silent neighborhoods. There are a million channels of satellite radio somewhere in his stereo but he leaves them alone, rolling down the windows and allowing the chill desert air to wrap around his neck. He puts down the top, too, and turns on the heater, weaving his way through beach cities as the sky starts to get light.

Two guys in wetsuits with boards amble across the pavement and he watches them pick their way to the sand. He takes a right at Santa Monica, sun staring him straight in the face as he congratulates himself for actually knowing where he is and how to get where he's going. Brendon's street is full, cars stacked end to end like they're on a trailer-truck. Spencer valets at the hotel around the corner and walks back, stopping to say hello to a girl in track pants out with her Rottweiler. Jon is right, he should get a dog.

Brendon's asleep in the living room, head at an awful angle against the arm of the couch. Spencer's trying to slide a pillow under his neck when he wakes up, smacking his lips and nearly butting Spencer's forehead.

"You're alive," he mumbles, then screws up his face, sitting up enough to reach a glass on the coffee table. He swishes and swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I figured either he was chopping you into tiny bite-sized pieces or you'd run away together."

"Mostly we talked about you," Spencer says, and sits down next to Brendon.

"That can't be good."

Spencer smiles and shoves Brendon around until he fits under Spencer's arm. "It wasn't bad," he says. "Actually, no, it was good. It was good."

Brendon tilts his head back. "How good?"

Spencer doesn't want to take the bait. "Really good," he says instead. "I don't really have any friends, Brendon."

"Yeah you do, you've got me, and Ryan, and --"

"I have a band. And a few guys in other bands I know all right. And my sisters and their families and my parents. And, hell, maybe Haley and I will even figure out how to have a conversation again. But I'm 30 years old and I haven't made a new friend since -- since I don't even know. It's kind of pathetic."

"No," Brendon says quickly, "no, it's --"

"There's no need to start going easy on me now, Mr. Reality Check. It's pretty lame. I'm a friendly guy, right?"

Brendon burrows into Spencer's side, tucking his nose against Spencer's chest. "Do you," he says, and takes a deep breath. "We can just be friends, if that's what you want."

Spencer lays his hand on Brendon's shoulder, just cupping the curve of bone and feeling his warm skin through the thin t-shirt. "I was thinking, actually, I was thinking we should go out."

"Oh," Brendon says.

"On a date," Spencer clarifies. "Together, you and I. We should go out. Like, on purpose, go to dinner or --"

Brendon pushes up and out of Spencer's embrace, and he's still got little squares in the pattern of the couch fabric on one cheek and his hair is sticking up and his breath fucking reeks and Spencer's only ever felt like this once before, just one girl and one boy and both times it didn't make sense but he had to try anyway.

"You busy tonight?" he asks, and Brendon blinks at him and eventually says no. He smiles sleepy and confused, rubbing his eyes like he expects to wake up from a dream.

Spencer tries to kiss him but Brendon holds him at bay. "Not yet," he says, "not if we're going on a _date_."

"Fine," Spencer says. "You have to pick the restaurant."

"Fine." He holds out his hand to shake and Spencer takes it, laughing. "It's a deal. Also my mouth tastes disgusting."

*

Spencer locks the bathroom door and calls Ryan for help.

"Just do your hair like you always do it," Ryan says, exasperated a minute into the conversation. "He knows what you look like. He knows what you looked like when you were in high school, Spencer, he's not going to walk out because personal grooming has been low on your list of priorities for a while. He probably should, but --"

"Oh my God, why did I think this would be better?" Spencer mutters at his reflection, flicking the comb again over the funny piece in the back that won't lie down right.

"Are you wearing cologne?" Ryan asks.

"Should I be?"

"How hard did you hit your head when you drove through your house, tell me for real."

"I took a shower, I smell like -- like soap, I guess. I don't know, Brendon picked it out."

"I'm hanging up now so you're not late for your very important date," Ryan says, and the call clicks off.

When he steps into the hallway and calls Brendon's name, there's no answer. He pulls his phone out again but the message is already waiting:

 _your chariot awaits. (at the curb in my car like a proper gentleman. come down whenever you're FINALLY ready.)_

The sun roof is open and an album he gave Brendon last Christmas is playing on the stereo. "You're not going to get out and open the door?"

"This is a date, not a dumb romance novel," Brendon says, but he still takes Spencer's hand when they're at a long light.

Spencer's relatively sure Brendon enlisted professional help to get them into Achatz West on 12 hours' notice, but he's hardly going to turn down the chance to eat spherificated sweet potato in mango vapor even if it means they end up in a gossip column.

They're seated in the window, reinforcing Spencer's theory. By the time the chef gets paraded out to oversee delivery of their first presentation -- "No, please, call me Evan," he insists as he explains how the tomato water was alginated -- Brendon looks so self-satisfied Spencer's surprised he can still swallow.

"I know you like food," Brendon shrugs, though he doesn't let his eyes off Evan's ass until he's safely ensconced back behind swinging doors.

"You're just worried I'll run off to the kitchen to interrogate him myself."

Brendon grins. "That too."

Spencer licks the last of the tomato off his utensil. "I'm done with that," he says, and Brendon raises his eyebrow.

"Lost your appetite already?"

"Didn't have much of one to start off with," Spencer says. "Are we going to keep trading food metaphors a while longer or are we ready for the next course?"

Brendon snorts out a laugh and lights up with the real smile Spencer always knows is lurking somewhere beneath his people pleasing toothy version. "Next is steak, right?"

Spencer snickers when they're served filet mignon cut into meticulous diamond shapes and incensed in a plume of cardamom and rose petal smoke. "Close enough for jazz," he says, and Brendon be-bops his way through each mouthful.

"So I started working on a song," Brendon says, and takes a big swallow of wine.

"That thing for whatshername?"

"No. Something -- it's new. I don't know. You left me all alone! I had to entertain myself somehow."

"When I said -- Brendon, anyone would be --" He stops and tries to say what he means. "I just hope they know how fucking lucky they are to have you work on their shit. That's what --"

"No, you were totally right. Just because other people are willing to do the hard work --"

"Don't -- don't sell yourself short, most of them would give an arm to play one instrument that easily, let alone --"

"No, I'm not. Look, let me --" He leans his elbows on the table. "You know the song from Shane's movie?"

Spencer nods. "That -- that one was different." It was different, enough that Spencer noticed and so did plenty of other people, fans and critics who speculated what it meant and who it was for. It was vulnerable, in its words and arrangement, a simple, raw recording about a boy who found love and didn't know what to do with it.

"It wasn't actually done, or going to be, Shane just put it in a rough cut and then he asked me if he could leave it, and I said maybe, and then the producers really liked it and I didn't want to, you know, screw things up for him on his big break."

"You wrote it for him."

"Yeah, but I didn't really think anyone else needed to suffer through that, and --"

"Oh, come on." Spencer's so used to protesting Brendon's bullshit that he forgets for a second that this is the kind of thing Brendon isn't kidding about. "Brendon, that song. It was fucking beautiful."

"Well," Brendon says. "I haven't had much worth writing about in a while."

The waiter sets long spiky skewers speared with rippled waves of translucent bacon in front of them. Delicate wires holding each end curve up from a sterling cube, and Spencer leans forward to take it in his mouth. When he flicks his eyes up Brendon is staring, rapt. "Shut it," Spencer says after he swallows. There's some kind of frozen, nutty anglaise and Spencer wants to moan but there's only so much mocking he can handle in one bite.

But Brendon just copies his posture, eyes widening as he leans back. "I don't know what I just put in my mouth, but I think I'm in love," he says.

Dessert is a shot-sized glass with a chocolate globe suspended in limeflower water, a drizzle of kelly green mint running through one side like a river.

Brendon licks his lips and says, "There once was a meal made of bites, small plate after plate to entice."

Spencer waves his hand to continue but Brendon shakes his head.

"You know that show we did with Pete and everyone in Belfast?"

Spencer does, though he doesn't remember much more than that. It was a long time ago. He nods.

"You were -- I don't know where you were, but Jon and Ryan and I were drinking at some pub and this old guy -- maybe we told you this, he challenged me to some crazy Irish duel where we were both making up songs as fast as we could. And Ryan, I always remember, Ryan said, 'You write better limericks than anyone in the world, Brendon, because they're just silly dirty jokes, and no one is better at that than you.'"

A car honks out on La Cienega and there's a sharp squeal of tires but after a long second everyone keeps going. Spencer says, "You know he didn't mean that's all you're good at, right?"

Brendon shrugs. "Sure," he says.

The check comes, a block of perfectly clear ice through which a number glimmers wetly. Spencer puts his credit card on the table next to it. "I asked you out," he argues when Brendon frowns.

Brendon tucks his hand through Spencer's arm as they walk out the door. It's just getting cool enough at night that Spencer wishes he had a coat. Brendon's body is warm pressed all along his side as they wait for the valet to bring the car back.

"Is there an after-party?" Brendon asks, sounding content and a little bit sleepy. For all the small portions and serious talk, Spencer is feeling full and happy. There are twinkling lights along the awning and Brendon's wearing a dark red shirt and it's kind of perfect, really.

He knows what comes next -- not just going home together, that much is kind of a given even if things went badly. But he knows the next part, too, the stupid giddy joy and charmed way things fall into place once you've done the hard part and found the right person. It's the same thing he felt driving through the dawn to get back to Brendon.

Brendon tilts his chin up, elbowing Spencer's ribs. "What?" he says.

Spencer says, "God, this is as good a time as any." He pulls just far enough away to face Brendon and he doesn't know what look he's wearing but Brendon pales a little, lips suddenly redder against his white face. "What?" Spencer asks.

"You're -- you're not going to propose, right?"

"I'm --" The valet pulls up to the curb in Brendon's car. "I'm not even divorced yet!"

"Well --" Brendon looks sheepishly down at his feet, clearly unaware that there are now two guys in bright yellow uniform jackets staring at them, waiting for them to take the car or start a fight or do something worth taking up so much real estate on a sidewalk in front of LA's hottest restaurant.

Spencer sees the white pop of a flash out of the corner of his eye as he says, "Brendon, oh my God. I am 30 years old, I am capable of realizing I'm in love with someone and not running for the altar. Yes, please, be my boyfriend, or my not-boyfriend, or whatever you want to call it so it doesn't make you freak out and make up stupid rules about how I have to sleep with other people."

"That was stupid," Brendon nods.

Spencer grabs his face and kisses him before either of them does anything stupider. "Get in the car," he says. "No, I'm driving, just get in." He circles the back of the car and shoves some money at the attendant.

Brendon's sitting with his hands folded on his lap, looking equally contrite and conspiratorial. "You realized you're in love with me," he says.

"So did you," Spencer retorts, and checks the rearview mirror. There are at least three cars waiting for him to move. He puts on his hazards and turns to Brendon. "This is what I decided," he says, "last night when I drove halfway to Mexico trying to figure shit out, and --"

"You weren't with Henry?"

"After that, after -- Brendon, you are more of an idiot than I am if you were worried about him." He squeezes Brendon's knee. "Pay attention, this is the important part. I drove like 400 miles and I realized, I have to sell my house."

Brendon swallows. "Um, okay."

"It's not even, it has a hole in it the size of the Alamo and I don't give a fuck, I don't want to spend the night there ever again. I'm going to get a condo in Vegas so when Ryan and Keltie have the baby I can be nearby, and then, unless you're planning some dramatic act of rebellion, I was thinking I'd get a place here, too. So I can be nearby."

Two cars honk in almost perfect harmony, and as soon as one stops a third chimes in. Brendon yells, "Shut the fuck up!" at his closed window.

Spencer says. "I don't believe in accidents, and I didn't just end up here, and we're not just making some mistake over and over because it's somebody's birthday. I want to do this, and then I want to figure out -- I don't know. The next 30 years of my life, I guess."

"You know," Brendon starts.

"Don't be an asshole right now, I'm warning you. This is your car. I could drive it into anything."

"You go right ahead and do that, Spencer. I was just going to say, I've been 30 a while now. I could probably help you, you know. Figure your shit out."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "You can."

Brendon leans over the gearshift and kisses his cheek, dry and demure, then turns Spencer's chin and licks into his mouth. Somebody knocks on the windshield and eventually they decide to stop kissing.

"You know how to get back from here?" Brendon asks, and Spencer says, "Of course I do." Brendon leaves one hand on Spencer's leg as Spencer pulls away from the curb.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Credits: Food and dogs by hearthisvoice. Handholding by sinsense. Ultimate pairing challenge by jae_w. Future by fmangel.
> 
> Short follow-up can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/173957).


End file.
